“I see.” The Marshal-General was silent a long moment, and Paks waited, as for a blow. “Paksenarrion, what do you, yourself, think of this anger? Is it just the wounds? It’s not uncommon for people to be irritable when recovering from illness or wounds.”
“I—don’t know. I don’t feel different—except for being tired. But if Amberion says I am, then—” She shook her head. “I don’t know. In the Duke’s Company, I didn’t get in trouble for fighting, or anything like that, but I did get angry. I can’t tell that it’s any more now than it was then.”
“Our fear,” said Amberion, “was that the type of fighting she did, with the iynisin—the kuaknom—would open a channel for Achrya’s evil—”
“I would hate to think so,” said the Marshal-General. “I would hate that indeed. Paksenarrion?”
“I don’t feel that, Marshal-General. Truly, I don’t—and I care for Gird, and for his cause, as much as ever I did. The anger is wrong—to be angry at you, I mean, but I can control it another time.”
“Hmm. Amberion, had you any other concern?”
“No.” He smiled at Paks. “She has not begun beating horses, or cursing people, or telling lies—it’s just an uneasiness. Ardhiel feels the same.”
“Paksenarrion, I hope you agree now that you should not travel to Three Firs—” Despite herself, Paks felt a twinge of irritation at this; she masked it with a nod and smile. “Good. Take a few days to rest; let our surgeons look you over. It may be that rest and good food will bring you back quickly. Don’t start drill again until I’ve talked with you. We may want you to help instruct a beginner’s class.”
Paks left the Marshal-General’s office with mixed feelings. The thought of instructing was exciting—she could easily imagine herself with younger students, as she had worked with recruits in the Duke’s Company—but the prescribed days of rest were less attractive. Though tired and jaded, she was restless, and could not relax.
“I’m about to do a dangerous thing,” said the Marshal-General, pulling out a blank message scroll.
“What?” Amberion watched her closely.
“I’m going to write Duke Phelan of Tsaia.” Arianya trimmed her pen, dipped it, and began.
“Phelan? Why?”
“I think you’re right. I think this child is in serious trouble. And I think we don’t know her well enough. Phelan commanded her for three years; he will know which way she’s turned.”
“Then you sensed something too?”
“Yes. Not much, as you said. But deep, and so rooted that it will grow, day by day, and consume her. By the cudgel of Gird, Amberion, this is a sad thing to see. She had so much promise!”
“Has still.”
“Maybe. Right now—we must keep her from leaving, and from hurting anyone else. If she leaves us—” She shook her head. “The only thing standing between Achrya and her soul is the Fellowship of Gird. Ward her, Amberion.”
“I do, and I shall.”
It was some days later that Paks came into the forecourt to find familiar colors there: three horses with saddlecloths of the familiar maroon and white, with a tiny foxhead on the corners, and a pennant held by someone she had never seen before. She lingered, wondering if the Duke himself had come to Fin Panir, and what for, but she had urgent business with the Training Master, and had to go.
Upstairs, in the Marshal-General’s office, she herself was the topic of conversation—if such it could be called.
Duke Phelan faced the Marshal-General across her polished desk, his eyes as cold as winter seawater. “And you want me to help you? You, who could not protect, for even a year, a warrior of such promise?”
Arianya sighed. “We erred, my lord Duke.”
“Tir’s guts, you did, lady! Not for the first time, either! I thought I’d never be so wroth with you again, as when my lady died from your foolishness, but this—!” He turned away, and paced back and forth by the window, his cloak rustling, then came to lean on the desk again. “Lady, that child had such promise as I’ve rarely seen in thirty years of fighting. Your own paladin saw that in Aarenis. You could not ask better will, better courage, than hers. Oh, she made mistakes, aye—beginner’s mistakes, and rarely twice. But generous in all ways, willing—we hated to lose her, but I thought she’d be better off in some noble service. She had a gentle heart, for a fighter. I was glad to hear that she’d come here for training. She’ll make a knight, and well-deserved, I thought. And then—!” He glared at her.
“My lord, we thought—” began Amberion.
“You thought!” The Duke leaped into speech. “You never thought at all. Make her a paladin, you thought, and then you dragged her into such peril as even you, sir paladin, would fear, and without your powers to help her. You think me stained, Girdsmen, compared to your white company, but I know better than to put untrained raw recruits into hot battle. ’Tis a wonder you have any paladins at all, if you throw them away so.”
“We don’t, Duke Phelan,” said Marshal Fallis. “They do not go out untrained. But in her case—”
“She did. Do you even know how young she is? What years you have wasted?”
“Duke—” began Fallis angrily.
“Be still!” roared the Duke. “I’ll have my say; you asked me here for help and you’ll hear me out. I have no love for you these fourteen years, Girdsmen, though I honor Gird himself. Protector of the innocent and helpless, you say—but where were you and where was he when my lady met her death alone and far from aid?” He turned away for a moment, then back. “But no matter. If I can help this girl, I will. She has deserved better of us all.” He looked around for a chair, and sat. “Now. You say she was captured, and is now alive but in some trouble. What is it?”
“My lord Duke, a paladin candidate can be assaulted in spirit by evil powers; that’s why we normally keep them sequestered. We think that in defending herself during captivity she became vulnerable to Achrya’s direct influence. This is the thought of Amberion and Fallis, who observed her at the time they brought her out, and also of Ardhiel the elf, who knows how kuaknom enchantments might work.”
“I see. Then you think she is now an agent of Achrya?”
“No. Not yet.” Arianya met his eyes squarely. “My lord, all we have noticed so far is irritability—unusual for her, for we have known her to be always goodnatured, willing, and patient. It would hardly be noticed in another warrior—indeed, many expect all fighters to be touchy of temper.”
The Duke grinned suddenly. “I am myself.”
“I noticed. But she has not been so since we’ve known her. You have known her longer; we thought you could tell us if she has changed.”
“You want me to tell you if she has become evil?”
“No. She has not become evil, not largely. That I could certainly sense for myself. I want you, if you will, to speak to her—observe her—and tell us if she is changing in the wrong way. Becoming more violent, less controlled—that is a sign of contamination.”
“And if she is? What then will you do?”
The Marshal-General paused long. “I am not sure. She is a member of our fellowship, and a paladin candidate—as such, she is under my command. As she is, she cannot be a paladin—”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes. I’m sorry, but so it is. What is of no account in another may be a serious flaw in a paladin. If she had gone over to Achrya, it would be my duty to kill her—”
“No!” The Duke jumped to his feet.
“Please. Sit down. She has not—I am not saying she has—I am saying if that were true, which is not true. Yet. But if she is changing in that way—if the evil is growing—then, my lord Duke, we cannot tolerate an agent of evil among us. We cannot. Somehow, before that happens, we must prevent it.”